Home, Sweat Home (Yes, Sweat)

The return to reality is always a little harsh.  Even if you are not returning immediately to work.

The custody arrangement Lars and I reluctantly agreed to (when the maniacal Special Master insanely suggested that we both go find apartments and rotate weeks in the house with the kids) is a Friday to Friday arrangement.  So we return routinely from vacations on Fridays - allowing for a little decompression and reacclimation before being forcibly returned to the world of screaming voice mails and overly long, pissy emails, and stacks of God Only Knows What covering the surface of the desk that no one but you can possibly manage to deal with.

We pack the car. We chase down the cat (also reluctant to leave) and stuff her against her will into the carrier.  We make the drive home. Traffic is light. We are in front of the house in no time.

It is hotter than fried Hell.
My lawn looks like 1313 Mockingbird Lane's.
My shrubs have turned into Jurassic Park.
Other People's recyclables have taken flight and blown down the street to take up residence in my yard.
My neighbor's predatory Morning Glory has spread all over my bushes and trees and is actively choking them. And has the nerve to be cheerfully blooming.
Someone has delivered the paper all week. I don't get the paper delivered. Yet five soggy editions are pasted to the steps.

I sit behind the wheel of the car for a moment trying to find a thought to dwell on that would make me rally to the task of unpacking the car and entering the house. Thoughts of mowing and weeding and pounds of mail squeeze out all the good ones.

But then I have it!  My kitchen!  I had emailed Wally before I'd gone.  Told him we'd be away and so would the cat, so have at it! Work day and night!  Work the weekends if you want. Make yourself at home. Hell, sleep over so you get an early start. My house is your house! Rock on.

Of course all of this was code for "My little 5 day project has now turned into 50 days, so your math is a little off.  I will maturely keep my inner howler monkey from tearing your face off if you would just be so kind as to finish the damn job so I can stop making coffee and toast in my living room. I will stay out of your way and give you time to focus. Take whatever pill helps you concentrate and get cracking. Please. For the love of all the is holy. Finish. My. Kitchen."

Surely. For sure. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he's wrapped up the job and I have noting but a gleaming new kitchen, a crisp, unwrinkled final bill, and my returned house key awaiting me.  Those, and the welcoming smell of fresh paint.

I practically fly from the car.

I grab a suitcase and the cat and bark some unpacking orders at the kids.  They look at me like I've gone mad on the way home.  I turn to Hil.  "The kitchen!  Let's go see!"  And then suddenly she and Pat are hot footing around grabbing what they can and bounding up the front steps.

I fumble with the lock (the locksmith I got when J. went sailing over the edge of reason put new locks on all the doors but this one is upside down and makes me insane) but finally fling the door open.

I spring the cat from her portable jail and spring into the kitchen, trying not to look before I get there. The kids are on my heels.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing has changed.

While we were on vacation, evidently Wally was too. My kitchen is in exactly the same state as when we left. Right down to the note I'd left Wally still taped to the door.

Let the ranting begin.